Patchwork

by Karsten Knight

  I’ve had enough. I stand up, and before Mr. Slattery can spot me, I pack a hard snowball in my hands. Years of softball pitching have made my arm strong and accurate, even overhand, so when I release the fastball, it sails directly between the gate bars and explodes in Slattery’s face.

  The surprise attack knocks him back into his car. When he pulls his hand away from his face, there’s already a red welt swelling up on his right cheekbone. The hard-packed snow, practically ice, even drew a line of blood.

  I’ve always toed the line of school rules, but I never thought I’d physically assault a teacher. But Mr. Slattery’s actions have repulsed me to no end. I don’t need a second predator victimizing my friends.

  The good news? My gut is telling me that even though Slattery has been present for the last three attacks, it was most likely to keep a jealous eye on Ivy—not to murder students. Osiris is supposed to be calculated assassin, but the man standing in front of me is just a coward.

  “Get the hell out of here, Dave,” I say, parroting what Ivy called him.

  “How dare you!” he yells at me, but his voice sounds feeble and afraid.

  Meanwhile, Ivy stands frozen as her secret life collides with our friendship, two things she clearly intended to keep separate.

  Before Mr. Slattery can dive back for the car, I whip out my cell phone and snap a picture of him, disheveled and wild-eyed, with Ivy clearly in the photograph as well. “You have three seconds,” I warn him, “to climb back into your jeep and slither off through the snow. If you don’t leave, or if you ever come near Ivy again outside of your classroom, this picture will end up in the hands of the headmaster and the police before you can say statutory.”

  Mr. Slattery scampers around the front of his jeep, but he pauses in front of the license plate. “This could have been something special, Ivy. I could have been so good to you.”

  I launch another snowball his way. This one splatters on his windshield. The door slams, and after a vicious U-turn, the jeep speeds off down the road. Through the gaps in the trees, I can see it slipping and sliding over the snow before it vanishes completely.

  Ivy presses her back to the gate and slides down into a sitting position. She’s crying by the time her butt touches the snow.

  I honestly have no idea what to say to her. What the hell were you thinking? is the first thing that comes to mind—but she’s the victim here, so that can’t be right. So many questions need answering. How long has it been going on? How far did it go? What kind of steps do we need to take now?

  I plop down in the snow next to her. I tuck an arm around her and she capsizes into me.

  After she’s cried for a minute, she wipes her eyes with her jacket sleeve, which counterproductively smears snow across her face. She doesn’t seem to notice. “You must think so much less of me right now,” she says.

  “Not at all.” I rub her shoulders affectionately. “Although I think in the future you might need to be more selective about which personal ads you respond to.”

  This at least draws a short, albeit wet laugh from her. “It started around the end of Christmas vacation,” she explains. “As you know, I was stuck on campus for the full two weeks.”

  I do know. Ivy’s parents are the jet-setting type, and they’ve made it pretty clear that Ivy is persona non grata during the school year—to teach her “independence,” according to Ivy. For better or worse, most of the boarding students at Daedalus rarely see their parents. The same goes for Slade, Wyatt, and even Troy, but after Ivy told me in October that her parents had announced their plan to divorce, I became especially worried about her. I tried to spend as much time with her as I could throughout the winter, but I’d unknowingly deserted her when she needed me most.

  “Dave—” Ivy blushes, then corrects herself. “Mr. Slattery invited me over for dinner one night, and I was feeling lonely, and …” She bows her head. “I don’t know what got into me. I don’t know what I ever saw in him. It was thrilling at first, like I had this dark little secret I could hide from everyone. Now it just feels dirty.”

  And this is why Ivy and I have bonded so well over the last year: we’ve both always felt this deep discontent with high school life. “We’re a lot alike,” I tell her. “And while I can’t exactly recognize what it is you saw in Dave Slattery, I can at least understand the urge to embellish your life a bit when things get dull.” I nod back to the lodge. “Especially when your dating options at Daedalus include dolts like Garrett Holmes.”

  “Can we maybe postpone talking about this?” Ivy asks quietly. “I need a distraction. To enjoy myself the rest of this ski trip, get some time on the slopes, or sit next to the fire where I can clear my mind. We can … sort everything out when we get back.”

  I fall silent. What does it mean to “get back” at this point? If Osiris fails again and we get sucked back another month, then this confrontation with Mr. Slattery will have never happened anyway. And if Osiris succeeds …

  I pat her knee. “You bet, kiddo.”

  There’s a crunch of boots on snow ahead of us. I flinch. I’ve had such tunnel vision since Mr. Slattery’s arrival that I almost forgot to stay vigilant.

  It’s just Slade. He’s standing at the bend in the path with three hot chocolate mugs balanced between his hands. Unless the steam rising from the cups is causing some sort of mirage, the expression on his face is a new one for Slade: penitence.

  He wanders over and gingerly extends the first mug to Ivy. “The kitchen was all out of olive branches,” he says, “so I made you hot cocoa instead. A disclaimer, though: by taking the cocoa from me, you hereby agree to forgive me completely for being an out-of-line prick back there.”

  Ivy plucks it from his hands and offers a limp smile. “Less guilty rambling and more chocolate, McGreevy.”

  Slade grins and hands me a mug. “Renata, do you mind if I have a word alone with Ivy?”

  “Sure.” I glance at the road. There’s no way I’m leaving the two of them out here, exposed. I need everybody in a central location. “Come back to the house where it’s warm, though. I’d hate to walk outside and find you guys as human snowmen.”

  As we wind our way back down the drive, a stiff breeze picks up at our backs. I glance over the gates. There is something far more menacing lurking out there than an unhinged teacher or the dark secrets unearthed during a Truth or Dare game.

  The living room is empty of everyone except Wyatt, who’s busy tossing new logs into the enormous fireplace. Where the bitter cold outside had shocked me awake before, the warmth that rushes over me inside the lodge has the opposite effect. Adrenaline has kept me going all this time, but I’m suddenly reminded just how long it’s been since I’ve slept. Exhaustion has rendered math a little bit difficult, but I know that I was awake—

  —for at least twelve hours during the college visit and the frat party, and awake

  —from dawn until dusk the day of the softball championship, and awake

  —throughout the prom, and the hours I spent getting ready, all the way back to the afternoon nap I’d taken before we left campus.

  Add in the transit time through Patchwork, and I’ve been awake for well over 24 hours.

  This has been the worst all-nighter ever.

  Wyatt studies me, with the final log clutched under his elbow. Either he’s been reading my thoughts or I must look as tired as I feel, because he asks, “You okay? You seem a little unsteady.”

  He’s right—I’m tottering around like I’m drunk. I set my mug down on the coffee table, toss my winter coat in a heap, and bellyflop exhaustedly onto the sofa. The leather cushions might be soft, but I can still feel every scrape, burn, and bruise I’ve accumulated since prom. “So I take it that lovely game of Truth or Dare didn’t go another round?” I ask. Now that Ivy and Slade have disappeared off into the kitchen to have their heart-to-heart, Wyatt and I are alone in the cavernous living room. Where the hell are Garrett, Marcie, and Dana, the teenage toddlers? And more importantly,
where the hell is my boyfriend?

  “The game died as soon as you left,” Wyatt tosses the log into the fire. A cloud of embers billows up like he smashed a nest of fireflies. “Kind of pointless to keep playing after the two most attractive women in the room run out the front door—especially when one of them would rather play Eskimo outside than kiss me.”

  “Wyatt, don’t start.” We just had one of these awkward “you and I can never be” conversations at the frat house. I know he can’t remember it, since it technically no longer happened, but am I really going to have to rehash this every time I go back? “You and I both know that even a kiss during a game can have consequences.” I glance up at the balcony overlooking the living room. The door to the bedroom I’m sharing with Troy is closed. I pray that he’s inside, out of earshot. Still, I lower my voice. “Maybe I figured that if I skipped this one, we could retroactively count the kiss two months ago for the game.”

  Wyatt laughs dryly as he prods at the fire with the metal poker. “Does that logic make you feel any less guilty?”

  I pause. “No.”

  “And did seeing Troy kiss Marcie make you feel any—?”

  “No,” I cut him off this time and point to the fireplace. “How about you stick to stirring up one fire at a time?”

  Wyatt smiles softly over his shoulder. “Blame Slade and Dana for starting the fires around here. Still, I didn’t mean to fan the flames.” He leans the hot poker against the fireplace and drops down next to me. I want to go climb the stairs and figure out where Troy is, but I’m irritated that his response to the Truth or Dare drama was to excuse himself to our room, without me. I’m also overcome with fatigue, every minute that I haven’t slept weighing down on me like a heavy stone. Maybe it’s okay to rest here, I think tiredly. Just for a minute …

  Wyatt is sitting close enough that I can smell the leather and cinnamon of his cologne. When he’d gone shopping the week before Christmas, he’d brought Ivy and me along to help him pick one out. Ivy I could understand—the girl has so many perfume bottles lined up in her dorm room that she could open a department store. But now I can’t help but wonder if he had an ulterior motive bringing me along, waiting to see which scent I found alluring.

  “I’m not mad at you for running out before our kiss,” Wyatt whispers. “In fact I’m glad you did.”

  I rub my eyes. Even the caffeine from the cocoa isn’t helping. “Why’s that? You find me repulsive?” I joke.

  The reflection of the firelight dances in Wyatt’s eyes as he looks boldly into mine. “Because the next time I start kissing you, I can’t promise I’ll be able to stop.”

  I squint at him. “What is it about me that keeps you from letting go?” I demand. “I’m a weird girl you’ve only known for five months, and I know for a fact you’ve got a devoted cheering section at your water polo games. They even make posters with your name on them. Why waste your time pining after me, even when I push you away?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to make a poster, too, you know,” he says. “You have to be a better artist than some of those sophomores.”

  “You’re deflecting,” I say.

  “You want the truth? I like you because you’re broken like me.”

  “Wow.” I shake my head. “You sure know the fastest way to a girl’s heart, Wyatt.”

  “I said ‘broken,’ not ‘unfixable.’ When I transferred to Daedalus last semester, I never felt so invisible in my whole life. I thought no one else would notice the way I was wandering around with my compass busted, that maybe I could fake it until senior year was over. But then I met you.” His fingers boldly intertwine with mine. “It took me a while to figure out how, out of all the people who walked past me in the halls like I was just another flier on the bulletin board, you were the one who stopped.”

  I am paralyzed. Troy could come downstairs any second. I should pull my hand away, but Wyatt’s touch isn’t altogether unwelcome.

  “You saw through me because you’re like me,” he continues. “You’re lost, so you wear a mask because you don’t want anybody to notice.” He glances back at the bedrooms, as if to say Even Troy. “That’s why you do things to fill the empty space. Like create secret societies to stage elaborate pranks.”

  “You’re wrong.” I’m not sure whether I’m denying my involvement with the Amaranthines, or refuting everything else he’s said.

  But he’s right down to the last word.

  His hand lingers in mine—or is mine lingering in his? I’m so tired. “If you really think of me as some sort of lost puppy,” I say, “then what the hell could you possibly see in me?”

  “I see resolve.” He squeezes my hand. “Everyone is lost and broken—that’s what high school is for. But I can tell you have this faith that other people don’t. Not faith in God or anything spiritual like that. Faith that things will turn out okay, whether it’s five days from now, or five years. You’re like … like a muscle after a workout. It’s torn and sore, but when it finally repairs itself, it will end up stronger than ever before.”

  “You’ll make a great physical therapist some day,” I say wearily.

  “Now you’re deflecting.”

  I sigh, and lean toward him. He leans in, too, like he’s about to kiss me, but I dodge before his lips can find mine. I can’t handle the confusion—or the longing—that I’m sure is written all over his expression, so I keep my face close. “This may not make a lot of sense to you right now,” I whisper, “but sooner or later, you’re going to forget about me, whether you like it or not. And when you do, it will be for the best.”

  I get up, snatch my hot cocoa mug off the table, and cross the room without looking back. I desperately need caffeine, even if it means interrupting the Slade and Ivy peace talks going on in the kitchen. Just as I reach the threshold, Wyatt says, “I choose not to forget you, Renata Lake.”

  “It’s not your choice anymore,” I reply.

  It’s Osiris’s choice now.

  The Slade-Ivy peace summit must be over. In the corner of the kitchen, Slade holds the chair that Ivy’s standing on while she tries to get a CD into the stereo on top of the cabinets. “What are you guys doing?” I ask. I stumble over to the coffee machine, which mercifully just finished brewing, and fill up my mug.

  “The soundtrack was your idea,” Slade says.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I take a sip of coffee and cringe. This batch is particularly bitter, so I add an aggressive splash of creamer.

  Slade nods to the counter, where I find a CD titled Sounds of the Ocean.

  Now I remember.

  Today, the Amaranthines played a “micro prank”—not our traditionally school-wide overtures, performed for all to see, but a special preview for the four outsiders staying in the lodge: Wyatt, Marcie, Dana, and Garrett.

  First, the setup: As we ate burgers around the fireplace, Slade told a disturbing ghost story about “the Firewood Collector.” According to local legend, during a bad snowstorm, a man in a dark cloak had appeared at a local house, carting a wheelbarrow. He offered to sell firewood to the couple who lived there, but when they looked in the wheelbarrow, there were no logs, just decimated human remains floating in blood. When Slade got to the part about the logger pulling out his hatchet and murdering the couple, Wyatt interrupted to ask how the story could have been passed down if the two victims were “too dead” to tell their story. Slade shrugged and eventually everyone went to bed.

  The execution: We stole everyone’s cell phones in their sleep.

  We disconnected the phone line.

  We piped some creepy whale sounds over the house intercom system, broadcasting the eerie underwater moaning into every room to wake our friends.

  And then Troy, dressed in a dark cloak and a mangy wig, started dragging a hatchet down the hallway.

  It was stupid and only managed to freak out Garrett and Dana—Marcie and Wyatt both laughed it off. But the last thing I’m about to do is let my friends stage a home invasi
on by a serial killer when there’s a real one lurking somewhere nearby.

  “This was a stupid idea,” I say. “The prank is off.”

  “Oh, grow a pair, Renata.” Slade looks pissed. This joke was his brainchild. “I know it’s a bit Hollywood, but that’s the damn point. We’re not trying to give everyone a heart attack. Just creep them out a bit. After the way Dana and Marcie behaved during Truth or Dare, don’t act like you wouldn’t pay to see the two of them piss their nightgowns.”

  The last part is true, but not enough to sell me. “No prank. I’m not messing around, guys. Someone could get seriously hurt.”

  Ivy sighs and hops down from the chair. “What’s gotten into you? You were gung-ho about this a week ago.”

  “I promise I’ll plan something good for the Amaranthines to do after vacation. On campus. Something not involving serial killers and hatchets.” The word hatchet reminds me that Troy has it stowed in our room along with the rest of the costume. It might come in handy if we need to defend ourselves.

  Although something tells me that when Osiris finally gets here, he’ll come prepared with his own arsenal of death.

  I give Ivy and Slade a final I’m the boss glare, and leave them to sulk in the kitchen by themselves. Wyatt has exited the living room, but he hasn’t gone far. Through the tall glass doors next to the fireplace, I can see him out on the patio, talking on his phone. He’s slumped over the half wall, looking out over the small frozen pond in the back. I slip past the glass and up the stairs before he can turn and see me.

  On the second floor, I pass the closed door where Garrett and Wyatt are staying. There are some nauseating moans, male ones, coming from inside, along with female giggling. It sounds like Dana and Garrett must have reconnected for round two after Truth or Dare. Log that under “things I don’t want to listen to.”

  I open the next door, expecting to find Troy in our bedroom … but he’s not there. It’s only once I wander over to the nightstand that I realize I’m not even in the right room. The open suitcase, halfway packed with hair accessories, probably belongs to Marcie. She would have packed her stylist if she could fit him in her Louis Vuitton luggage.